


To Garter Your Affections

by Dancains



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (not Isabella though!), An attempted meditation on sexuality, Angst, Clothing, Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Set in early Season 3, Sock garter fetish, Some vague heterosexual content, ed's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-05 05:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13381023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: "Oh, I can certainly help with that. You know, during the brief time I knew my father, he bemoaned the fact that young men today were gradually becoming ignorant of how to dress like gentlemen. I'm quite glad you and I are on the same page in such matters.""Of course." Ed replied.





	1. Dressed up like a Million Dollar Trooper

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 2AM and I'm not entirely sure it's coherent...please enjoy

During the first few days of his stay at the Van Dahl mansion, Ed found that his guest room was a veritable treasure trove of carefully tailored couture. The wardrobe was lined with perfect suits in every shade of black, gray, brown, and olive imaginable--each fitting him better than any other piece of clothing that had previously graced his lanky frame. 

 Ed already held a casual interest in men's fashion, and had tried his best to always look professional for his job at the GCPD, but Oswald was a man who took this interest to an entirely different level. Ed secretly wondered if Oswald had gained just as much pleasure arranging for these suits to be made and sorting through swatches of patterned fabric as Ed did wearing them.

 It was during the first morning that Ed had woken up in the mansion, half-thinking it was a dream and that he was still sequestered behind Arkham's stone walls, that he began searching through dresser drawers for a pair of socks. Sorting through them, he realized that only some had elastic at the top, like the socks he usually wore. His unvoiced question was answered when he found something like a leather strap with a buckle, with two shorter clips hanging from it. 

 Even though he knew that many well-dressed gentlemen still used garters to keep their socks from sagging, having the accessory in his hand still made a heat rush to his face. A memory rose to the forefront of his mind, of himself as a boy staying up late to watch old films on his family's grainy black and white television set. 

 He had never managed to track down the film again--something with a bleached blonde 1930's bombshell, that had shockingly featured her rolling on her sheer silk stockings and fastening them to her undergarments with the use of two garters. Ed had hurriedly shut off the television, fearing that one of his parents might walk in. Still, the image had ingrained itself in to his consciousness, and had kept him warm--in a manner of speaking--for many a night during his teen years.

 He pushed the garter to the back of the dresser drawer and selected a pair of elastic hemmed argyle socks to wear for the day. 

 It was only a week or so later, after Oswald's stunning victory, that he even remembered the harmless sock garters. He sat next to Oswald in the back of the town car as they were being driven to city hall, while Oswald chatted animatedly to him about their long list of duties for the day. As he crossed one leg over the other, Ed noticed the inch of wool that flashed beneath the hem of his pant leg. Oswald's socks were black, dotted with subtle violet diamonds--as always, they were paired perfectly with his neck tie and pocket handkerchief. 

 It suddenly occurred to Ed that Oswald had probably bought Ed sock garters because he wore them himself. He certainly had a flair for vintage attire, after all. Ed found himself strangely aware of the fact, for the rest of the short car ride, that Oswald's pinstriped slacks hid the two polished bands of black leather that kept his hosiery in place. He chalked the uncomfortable awareness up to his pre-existing association of garters with women, and managed to forget about it for the rest of the day.

 Oddly enough, he was reminded of the event roughly a month later, in the mansion's library, of all places. He had found himself with some free time before dinner on a Saturday evening, and decided to spend his time perusing the vast array of volumes that the Van Dahl family must have amassed over the decades. Being the magnanimous host he was, Oswald had encouraged him to use the space as much as he pleased, and to even keep any books he might take a fondness to. 

 Out of curiosity, he selected a book about early 20th century print advertisements, and plopped down into a comfortable reading chair to thumb through it. The text was interspersed with a variety of vintage illustrations--one of which in particular caught his eye. 

 He paused when he first came to the page and read the caption at the bottom:  _Advertisement for Interwoven socks, illustration by J.C. Leyendecker (1921)_. A man in an ornate brocade dressings gown stood with one foot on a small ottoman, his leg flexed suggestively to display the sheer black sock and the thin garter that held it in place. 

 Ed's eyes naturally followed the long graceful line that the man's leg formed, from where the front of the robe parted to the point of his shiny leather shoe. The dressing gown itself was practically a dead ringer for the one he often saw Oswald wrapped in on a cool evening, decorated with a spiraling gold pattern that glinted in the firelight. He could recall how the smooth fabric felt against his skin, that one evening Oswald had graciously lent it to him.

 Ed shut the book with a echoing thud when he suddenly heard a voice behind him. He turned to see Oswald leaning on the library's door frame.

 "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," said Oswald, who looked more than startled himself. "I just wanted to let you know that dinner will be ready in a few moments. Olga is making duck à l'orange."

 "Oh," Ed blinked, still feeling a sense of lingering embarrassment, "that's sounds lovely. I'll be there presently, I just need to...return something to my room." 

 With the book under one arm, he made his way past Oswald and up the grand staircase. He shoved the aging volume into the drawer of his bedside table, as if it were a piece of forbidden contraband. He fixed his hair and adjusted his tie in the bathroom mirror before descending to the dining room.

 He stayed seated at the dining room table long after the duck à l'orange was no more, and one glass of wine had become three. Oswald always seemed to find endless topics to discuss with him in the candlelight, never tiring of Ed's company as most usually did. When the grandfather clock in the adjoining room struck it's twelfth chime, they both decided to retire for the evening.

 Ed paused when he got back to his own room, feeling hazy bordering on tipsy, and watched Oswald retreat down the hallway until he finally disappeared into the darkness of the master bedroom. 

 An hour later he still found himself tossing and turning, unable to drift into dreamless sleep as he usually could. As a last resort, he snuck a hand under the waistband of his pajama pants and began to palm himself through his briefs. The image from the book in his bedside drawer came unfettered to his mind's eye, only for Ed to quickly push it away in confusion. 

 He tried instead to picture the woman from the old flickering film. She sat on the edge of a bed, her thin, pale legs spread invitingly as Ed crawled towards her. Her clever green-blue eyes flashed as he ran his fingers reverently down the nylon of her stocking. 

 Ed finally came, after an unusually long time. He could barely remember the fantasy the next morning.

 Next Monday morning he found himself in Oswald's room, helping him to select a tie and put the finishing touches on his ensemble as he sometimes did on particularly important occasions. Ed suspected it had become a routine more because Oswald enjoyed his company (as amazing as that was to still comprehend) than an actual need for fashion related advice. 

 Ed held two different ties in his hands, comparing them both to Oswald's charcoal gray waistcoat. 

 "I don't think I've seen you wear this emerald one before," he mused, "and I've set aside a pair of cuff links that I believe would pair nicely."

 "I do know you have a fondness for green, Ed. So, I suppose I'll indulge in your whims, just this one time," Oswald said, fondly teasing. 

"Well thank you for obliging me," Ed replied just as smoothly. Oswald tilted his head back to let Ed loop the tie for him. As he gently closed his eyes, it gave Ed a chance to watch him unabashedly, eyes scanning down from the sweeping angles of his eyebrows, to the sharp plains of his cheeks and chin, to the long expanse of pale neck that was on display below. 

 Ed let his hands linger after he was finished with the tie, smoothing wrinkles in Oswald's waistcoat that weren't really there. "As long as we're talking about clothes, maybe you can oblige me once more." The words seemingly slipped from his mouth like smoke and lingered in the air between them.

 Oswald's eyes flickered open. "Of course...I'd be happy to help with anything." 

 "It's about my socks."

 "I can buy you different socks if you don't-"

 "No--no, sorry. They're all fine, Oswald. I just noticed that you had bought me a pair of sock garters, to go with some of the wool socks. I must admit I don't actually know how to use them."

 It felt like a lie the second he had said it. He had never even gotten them out of the sock drawer since that first day, but as someone with an unusually high IQ, Ed undoubtedly would have been able to figure out how to clip a metal buckle to his socks if he so desired. Still, Oswald didn't seem even remotely phased by the request.

 "Oh, I can certainly help with that. You know, during the brief time I knew my father, he bemoaned the fact that young men today were gradually becoming ignorant of how to dress like gentlemen. I'm quite glad you and I are on the same page in such matters."

 "Of course." Ed replied.

 Oswald led him over to a chair near a desk, and steadied himself with a hand on Ed's shoulder as he propped one sock-clad foot on the seat of the chair. With his free hand he rolled up his pant leg to just above his knee. Ed's mouth went dry.

 "They're actually quite simple to use. I prefer the double grip variety myself," he gestured to the two clips on each side, "though they do produce single as well."

 Ed nodded. "Good to know."

 "I've experimented a bit with shirt stays, also, but I don't think they're really necessary if you're wearing a waistcoat. They function in a similar way, but to keep your shirt tucked in neatly." He paused. "I'm sorry, you probably already knew."

 "I didn't, in fact."

 "Ah, well it's nice to teach you something for a change. I always learn so much from you." Ed thought that the soft peal of laughter that followed had a slight nervous sound to it.

 "Anyway," Oswald gestured to his leg, "first, you want to have your sock already on, like so. Then, you wrap the garter around the leg, connecting the buckles at both ends. Then, you twist it around so both grips are on either side of the leg. After that, you tug the sock up a little--here, actually, why don't you try putting this back on." He removed the accessory completely and pressed it into Ed's hand.

 Ed glanced from Oswald to the strip of leather in his hand. "Sure." He hoped Oswald couldn't hear the slight quaver in his voice.

 With Oswald's hand still gripping his shoulder, he leaned down slightly and carefully wrapped the band of the garter around his calf. He tried to ignore the pleasant sensation of his fingers against warm skin as he followed his friend's instructions and twisted it around. He took each grip and fastened them both to the fabric of the sock, before straightening the garter one final time. 

 He looked back, expectantly, at Oswald, who had been watching him intently all the while with an impassive expression. Ed finally withdrew his hand, dropping it to his side. He felt an odd pang as Oswald smoothed down the fabric of his pant leg and planted his foot back on to the floor.

 "Perfect, you've got the hang of it," Oswald practically chirped. He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat to check the time, "We should probably get a move on. Now, where did I put my coat?"


	2. Trying Hard to look like Gary Cooper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  "Ed, have I done something to upset you?"
> 
>  The raw vulnerability in his words made Ed's stomach curl in shame. He steeled himself to respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is turning out to be both longer and angsty-er than I originally planned...whoops. Everything else I write for these guys seems to turn out as fluff, so this is a bit of a departure. As a warning, internalized homophobia plays a heavier role in this chapter, and the tags have been updated to reflect this.
> 
> New chapter titles are from the song "Puttin' on the Ritz" -- I find Mel Tormé's cover especially fitting in terms of mood.

The hours after the sock garter incident--as it was now billed in his mind--seemed to Ed as if they were passing in a haze. Just as quickly as it had ended, Oswald had pulled on his coat and shoes, and they were being driven to city hall. 

 He couldn't remember half of the things he and Oswald had discussed in the town car, nor anything he had said to any member of the city hall staff once they arrived. If anyone thought he seemed distracted, not a word was said.

 It wasn't until mid-morning that he was left alone in his office, solely him and his thoughts. He knew he was too preoccupied to do any sort of work, and got up with the intention of pacing back and forth across the room. Instead, he found himself going out the door and down two flights of stairs to the basement level of the building. Down a long corridor, past a series of locked doors that lead to file storage rooms, there was a men's restroom that always seemed to be completely unoccupied.

 Once he entered, he pushed each stall door open one by one just to be sure, pointedly avoiding his own reflection in the long mirror above the bank of sinks. He resisted the urge to kick in the last door, afraid that someone above might notice the noise, and instead pushed it open and sequestered himself inside.

 As soon has he had clicked the latch closed behind him, his shaking hands went straight to his belt buckle. It was almost impossible to lie to himself now, and there was no preamble to picturing his best friend, as he began rapidly working his half-hard cock. 

 The haze of tantalizing images rushed through his mind like water through an open floodgate: kissing Oswald, tenderness melting into something messy and animalistic, pressing--no, shoving--Oswald into a mattress with all of his weight, Oswald's legs hooked around Ed's sides like a woman's would be, himself on all fours, with Oswald's fingers bruisingly tight at his hips as he-- 

  _"Fuck,"_ Ed hissed through his teeth as he spurted, white hot and almost painful, into his fist and across the toilet seat below. The mortification came over him in shuddering waves, just as his climax had, when he realized what particular fantasy had put him over the edge. 

 He took an excruciatingly long time cleaning himself and the rim of the seat with a piece of toilet tissue before flushing it. Shaken, he left the stall and washed his hands with hot water and dried them. Then he washed his hands with hot water and dried them again. When he turned the tap on a third time, he heard the creak of the door opening, and for a full second he thought that his heart would stop, imaging that it was going to be Oswald standing there. 

 Instead, a gray haired office worker made a bee line straight to the urinals and Ed left as quickly as he could without looking unusual. The trip back up two flights of stairs and a short hallway was agony. Ed felt as if the shame and discomfort he was feeling was written into the features of his face, a new, permanent feature, plain for everyone to see. 

 His hands were painfully dry when he returned to his office, and he realized with a grimace that he had a small bottle of hand lotion in one of his desk drawers. He tried not think about how he could have brought it down to the men's room. His own office didn't have a lock. And it was situated directly next to the mayor's office. Oswald's office. Ed had no idea how he was going to look him in the eye the next time he saw him. 

 He managed to avoid Oswald for hours, then grew restless and told Oswald's secretary that he was going back to the mansion to work on some things there, before he finally made his way out of the building. She had the good graces not to ask any questions.

 He took a shower at the mansion, leaving the water at a frigid cold as an attempt to stave off any further desire to touch himself. 

  _This is completely ridiculous,_ he thought to himself. He had never thought about men like this before, especially the man he regarded as his closest--and only--friend. He had just finally come to know who he was, to be comfortable in his own skin, his own identity. The last thing he needed was for something like this to complicate it, to confuse him.

 It hit him like a punch to the gut that even if he could somehow come to terms with these growing feelings for Oswald, there was little chance that they were even requited. What was more painful was that Ed didn't believe that his own sex would have even been the deterrent factor.

 Oswald was the type of man who took things when he wanted them, who made no apology for his emotions, even when they were void of logic. He lived in a realm of passion and romanticism--no doubt if he experienced even an inkling of attraction to Ed, he would have made it abundantly clear. As far as he knew, Oswald still saw him as that awkward, fumbling forensic scientist who first pestered him at the GCPD bullpen, with his hair parted too severely and his obsessive admiration worn flagrantly and undisguised on his sleeve.

 Things had been so wonderful between Oswald and him, and now Ed had to go and ruin it, just like he seemed to ruin all of the other relationships in his life.

 

 Over the next few weeks, he felt himself steadily avoiding Oswald more and more when they were both at home. Looking to create a healthy distance between them, Ed explored the grounds further and further. 

 Oswald has once told him that he wasn't entirely sure where the estate's perimeter ended and where the state-owned land, covered in forests and open plains of grass, began. A good twenty minute's walk back from the main house, he found a garden that was undoubtedly part of the Van Dahl property, now overgrown and rustic. 

 He trailed his way through once-neat rows of hedges, and found a raised alcove with a stone bench, nearly hidden behind a cascade of creeping vines. When the weather permitted, or even when it shouldn't have, he spent his free time there. He took books from the library to read--always something dry: treatises on the Franco-Prussian war, or outdated scientific volumes on chemistry. Nothing with illustrations. 

 The entire garden was well explored by him now, even as the weather grew colder and he had to bundle on more layers for these afternoon jaunts. The grounds were home to many crumbling statues, and one that stood on a pedestal not far from his usual reading spot seemed to mock him in particular.

 It was of a male archer, one knee bent as his muscles were tensed, body angled to release the arrow from his bow. He remembered taking the bus as a teenager from their small town to the nearest big city, at least an hour and a half each way. Ed would spend his day at the history museum, taking in the beautiful Greek and Roman statuary. Hercules, Apollo, Achilles-- the gods and heroes of his favorite childhood literature rendered vividly before him. The memory left him feeling strange and unsure of himself.

 

 It was only so long until Oswald found him. Ed suspected that Oswald had known for a while where he escaped to during his free time. Oswald came to him one Friday, just as the sun was setting.

 "Ed, there you are..." Oswald called out.

 His nose and ears were pink from the cold--the same shade as the watercolor sky above him--and he had a thick scarf wound around his neck. The scene it painted was infuriatingly endearing. Ed bookmarked his page as Oswald stepped into the alcove, staying at the peripheral of Ed's personal space. He had a tin container under one arm, which he held out like a peace offering. 

 "Olga made a batch of coconut macaroons. I remembered you telling me once that you had a fondness for coconut...I just thought I would bring you some."

 Ed stood, taking the tin from his hand. Before he could say anything in thanks, Oswald abruptly spoke again.

 "Ed, have I done something to upset you?"

 The raw vulnerability in his words made Ed's stomach curl in shame. He steeled himself to respond.

 "No, of course not. Why would you think that?" he answered blankly. 

 "I--" Oswald faltered, "I have no idea. I'll let you get back to your book." He turned and began making his way over the uneven terrain back to the mansion. He turned his head before he had gotten too far, calling over the breeze. "Do try the macaroons, Ed. They're quite good."

 Ed nodded. He watched Oswald disappear on the horizon before biting into the flaky sweetness of one of the confectioneries. He tried to delve back into his book, but the hot sting of tears blurred the lines on the page.

 

 They continued on in this way for a time, two planets that used to orbit each other so intimately now simply existing in the same vast solar system. 

 He passed by Oswald's half-open bedroom door one evening, less than an hour before they were supposed to leave for an important charity gala.

 "Ed is that you?" Oswald called out.

 Ed poked his head around the door frame. "Who else would it be?"

 "Yes, of course. You're right." Oswald was standing in front of a full length mirror in dark trousers and an untucked dress shirt. Without turning, he looked at Ed in the reflection. "Could you...actually, never mind."

 "No, I'd be happy to help." It's was complete divergence from what he had been trying to make himself do, but the sight of Oswald in even the slightest state of undress proved to be riveting.

 He finally turned to face Ed fully, uncharacteristically wringing his hands. "What tie do you think I should wear to the gala tonight?"

 Just as if nothing had happened, Ed stepped back into his room--back into their old routine. He studied the drawer of neatly rolled ties as if it was the most important decision he would make that day. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Oswald tuck his shirt tails into his slacks and retrieve the waistcoat that had been laid out over his bed. His own hand hovered over paisley sapphire silk as he finally made his selection. Half-observing Oswald, he chose cuff links and a handkerchief to match. 

 Oswald froze in surprise as Ed began to tie his necktie for him. It seemed he had almost grown used to Ed's cold distance. 

When Ed was finished he gently took hold of one of Oswald's wrists and folded over the cuff of his shirt so the holes aligned. He opened one of the cuff links and threaded the pointed end through the openings, clipping it closed on the other side. It was something he had seen Oswald do many times before, even if Ed didn't wear french cuff shirts or cuff links himself. 

 Oswald blinked, his lips slightly parted. 

 "I'm sure this is a nuisance to do with one hand, " Ed murmured, in way of explanation, not quite meeting his eye. "Here, let me do the other one." 

 When he finished, he stepped back as if he was an artist passing judgement over his own painting. The blue in the tie brought out the hues in Oswald's clever, pale eyes. Ed didn't tell him that. 

 A long moment of silence hung between them. Oswald looked as if he wanted to say something, but was afraid to break the tentative thread that was strung tautly between them. Ed glanced at the clock that sat on Oswald's dresser. 

 "Excuse me, I was going to change before we left."

 "Ed," Oswald's hand caught his shoulder before he could leave. Ed tensed.

 "Thank you. For your help." He gazed at Ed hopefully.

 Ed tried to muster a smile. He nodded. "Anything for you, Oswald."

 When he returned to his room, he pulled a pressed shirt from the back of wardrobe, the fabric a soft shade of robin's egg blue. 


	3. Come, let's mix where Rockefellers walk with sticks (or umbrellas in their mitts)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Would you be up for some dancing," the woman across from him asked, "If only to kill some ti--"
> 
>  "No, thank you," Ed answered too quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this baby is finally finished--and I haven't even had time to reply to all the comments on the previous chapter! If anyone would be interested in a fanmix/playlist for this fic let me know, it's an idea I've been toying with because a lot of music inspired this. Anywho, please enjoy !

Ed wasn't sure if the drive to the charity gala had taken them five minutes or an hour. It seemed that he had suddenly come to conciousness there, as if snapping out of a dream.

 He was standing only a few feet back from Oswald, along with a handful of other city officials, as Oswald gave an impassioned speech about how the funds from the gala would greatly benefit Gotham's homeless youth, among other causes. He held the black-tie crowd enraptured, as Ed schooled his features into the most indifferent expression he could muster, if only to keep private the intense admiration he felt for Oswald in moments like this.

 In every moment, really, he thought. Even despite the confusion and dismay he had been feeling in light of recent events, Ed still felt like there wasn't anywhere else he should have been in that moment but by Oswald's side. His train of thought was shattered by loud applause, returning him to reality once more, as he and Oswald were ushered off-stage and were met with nearly endless introductions, handshakes, and photo-ops, before they could finally sit down at their table for the dinner that was to be served. 

 As usual, Oswald kept the small crowd seated near them occupied with charming quips and anecdotes, occasionally inviting Ed to make a comment or confirm a point. It was a simple enough spectacle that Ed could play along without thinking, and even while still feeling a pang of inadequacy among the small sea of CEO's, politicians, and socialites that seemed to be eating out of the palm of Oswald's hand. 

 Once the meal was finished--and the champagne had began to seriously disperse throughout the dining hall--the other guests at their table gradually got up to meander about and rub shoulders with the rest of Gotham's charitable elite. A live band had been set up on the stage, and was now playing swanky, mid-tempo jazz. Meanwhile, an open space meant to be a dance floor slowly began to populate, the now flowing alcohol no doubt serving as a social lubricant.

  _"Sing low...sing clear,"_ crooned the band's singer,  _"...sweet words in my ear..."_  It was type of mid-century pop standard that would have been at home among Ed's now lost vinyl collection.

 Oswald drew a delicate champagne flute to his own lips, drinking deeply as he studied Ed. "How are you faring tonight, old friend? I do hope you're enjoying yourself."

 "Well, the food was better than I had expected. And, as usual, your speech was riveting."

 "You really think so? I feel as if I've recited the same sort of shtick at half a dozen events likes this already, and you've certainly seen them all. Not to mention the fact that you've written most of them."

 "I think it's not nearly as important what you're saying, Oswald, but how you do it. You have the ability to command a room, and that in and of itself is...enjoyable to watch."

 Ed almost thought he had said too much, or given something away, as Oswald contemplated his response. They both started slightly, when a polite cough interrupted their private tête-à-tête.

 Two young women had been standing near them, one looking practically bored and the other flustered and nervous. 

 "I'm sorry for interrupting, Mr. Mayor," the more skittish woman interjected, "We, um, were introduced earlier this evening..."

 She was the adult daughter of a city councilman--Ed couldn't remember her name for the life of him, in spite of his usually impeccable memory.

 "Joyce, isn't it?" Oswald answered smoothly.

 The woman beamed despite her shyness, one hand twisting anxiously in the fabric of her skirt. "I was wondering if you'd like to dance?"

 Oswald shot Ed something like an amused glance, so quick that Ed barely caught it. 

 "Well how could I refuse such a charming young lady?"

 From someone else it would have sounded sarcastic or sleazy, but as always, Oswald was affably charming. He pushed himself up from his seat and allowed the now stammering woman to lead him towards the dance floor.

 "Do you mind if I--" the other woman asked, gesturing to one of the empty seats. Ed shrugged. As a waiter snaked by she pulled a champagne flute from his tray. "I'm sorry about my friend."

 Ed blinked. "I don't think you have anything to apologize for."

 "Well, maybe I'm not so much sorry about her, as much as a little sorry for her. She's a bit naive, ya know? Sheltered upbringing and all that...she saw him on the TV and just thought he was so suave and handsome. I don't have the heart to set her straight."

 For a few seconds Ed was at a loss of words; it wasn't a common experience for him. The last thing he expected that night was to have a thinly veiled conversation with a stranger about his best friend's sexual orientation.

 Ed chose his words carefully when he spoke. "Above all else, Mayor Cobblepot is...a gentleman. He would let her down very gently, if it became necessary. "

 "Good, you better hope so," the woman said, her drink sloshing as she gestured to punctuate her point. Still, her tone was actually light and teasing.

 They both watched the dancing couple for a long moment, and Ed wondered when and where Oswald had learned to dance. He lead beautifully--the unevenness to some of his steps only seemed to give the movements more variety and substance. 

 The woman, Joyce, was short and petite, and, admittedly, looked good paired beside Oswald, even if her dress was the most hideous shade of mustard Ed had ever laid eyes on. He wondered how Oswald would look dancing with someone much taller. Would it still be as graceful? Would Oswald still lead?

 "Would you be up for some dancing," the woman across from him asked, "If only to kill some ti--"

 "No, thank you," Ed answered too quickly.

 She nodded understandingly. 

 "Do you mind if I smoke?" she asked after a few moments of silence.

 In actuality, Ed detested the acrid smell, but he didn't feel like protesting. She pulled a pack and a lighter from her glittery clutch bag.

 "Joyce, Joyce, Joyce," she muttered, after taking a drag. Ed wasn't sure if she was still addressing him or not. "She goes on and on about how he lives in that big crumbling mansion by himself, and how he must be so terribly lonely..."

 Ed scoffed at that, nearly spilling some of his drink. 

 She raised an eyebrow--it was the most emotion she had probably seen on his face all night.

 "He certainly doesn't live there alone. I would know." Ed declared haughtily.

 He hadn't realize the full implications that he was making until the words were already out of his mouth. Anything she might have said in response was belayed by Oswald and his dance partner's return.

 Oswald said a few polite farewells before Joyce's friend gently steered her away--"I think your parents said they wanted to leave soon," she told her, "We should go and find them."

Ed watched as Oswald slipped off his suit jacket and sat heavily in the seat across from him. "It seems this job requires quite a variety of skill sets," he told Ed, bemused. 

 Ed noticed a slight flush across his cheeks from the exertion. He suddenly felt heated and overdressed himself, as if he had been the one dancing. "Yes, I suppose it does," he answered flatly.

 While Oswald took another sip from his near-empty glass, Ed watched over his shoulder as a man approached them.

 "Well, well, well...If I had known that the mayor had a dance card, I would have tried to get my name on it earlier."

 Oswald turned to the man, and Ed immediately was on edge. 

 He was tall and debonair, in a crisp black suit with perfectly slicked auburn hair. Ed could only see Oswald's face from an angle, but he recognized the quick though unmistakable flick of his eyes up and down the man's physique. 

 "Ah, Mr. Delacroix. How nice to see you again. I must admit I'm quite flattered...but I think I've reached my limits in terms of dancing tonight." He patted his own knee, self-deprecatingly.

 As Oswald spoke, the man didn't seem to be looking at him, but at Ed behind him--who hadn't realized he was practically staring daggers at Delacroix. If he had been holding a champagne flute in his tightening grip it probably would have shattered. 

 A hint of fear came over the man's face.

 "I'm sorry to hear that," he answered Oswald, his voice jut barely quavering. "Perhaps another time then."

 "Yes, perhaps."

 Delacroix quickly excused himself. Oswald seemingly hadn't noticed what had silently occurred.

 Ed pondered the exchange for the rest of the night. Had Oswald's leg really been that sore, or was it simply an excuse? And if so, why? Had he actually been disinterested in Delacroix? Ed would never admit it aloud, but he couldn't help but notice that the man had been decidedly attractive. Perhaps it was a matter of appearances? Though, Ed doubted that anyone in Gotham would really care if the mayor had a preference for gentlemen instead of women.

 The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, and him and Oswald parted ways immediately after returning home. 

 

 The next morning he got up at his usual early hour, took a shower, dressed, and came downstairs to an empty breakfast table. Even knowing that it was Olga's day off, he was still surprised not to see Oswald. He decided to fix himself something in the kitchen, and dully noted the three empty bottles of Bordeaux on the counter, one turned on its side. He doubted that Olga had been the one to open them.

 After polishing off his modest breakfast of oatmeal with fruit and toast, he contemplated what to do with his free time. He returned to his room, decided compulsively to brush his teeth in the en suit bathroom, and finally selected a book off of his dresser to possibly read in one of the sitting rooms or at his favorite spot outside. Instead he set the book back down, wondering why he couldn't hear anything of Oswald's movements about the house even though it was so late in the morning. 

 He made the short trip down the hall and knocked cautiously at the door. Something like a muffled groan came from within. Ed went stock still.

 "Ed, is that you?" Oswald called out, his voice sounding raspy, "It's...it's alright if you come in."

 Against his better judgement, Ed pushed open the door to find Oswald, dressed only in an undershirt and boxers, sitting on the edge of his bed with his face in his hands. As he peered out at Ed through his fingers, Ed could see dark circles under his eyes.

"Oswald, are you okay? Are you ill?" Ed didn't think he had seen him in such a state since the time they had spent both living in his apartment, what felt like a lifetime ago.

 "I think I may have...overtaxed myself at the gala last night. And, to be perfectly honest, I'm a bit hungover," Oswald admitted dryly.

 Ed had been aware for quite some time that Oswald drank significantly more than most people he knew, but he had almost never seen any real significant effects from it. Besides that, Ed knew Oswald had endured much worse pain that whatever a night of dancing might have brought on,and that he had always simply gritted his teeth and bared it alone. He almost wondered if this display of vulnerability was some sort of test for him. He had no idea what it was meant to achieve if that was the case. 

 He told Oswald to stay where he was, while he found a glass on the bathroom counter and filled it with cool tap water.

 Oswald gingerly took the glass in his hands, and drank the entirely of it at Ed's insistence. 

 Ed sat on the bed next to him as he finished it. "Is there anything else I could do for you?"

 "Ed, you don't have to-"

 "Please, let me do something for you."

 Oswald looked at him with uncertainty. He set empty glass down on his bedside table. "Well first, you could maybe fetch me a pair of socks and some trousers. And a shirt, too."

 In just a moment Ed had returned to the bed, and set the folded shirt and slacks on the bed cover next to Oswald. Without preamble, he dropped to his knees in front of Oswald and began pulling a sock onto one of his bare feet. He could hear Oswald's breath catch in his throat but he didn't protest. 

 When Ed had first become aware of his own strange fixation with Oswald's legs, he had written it off as his brain subconsciously likening them to those of a woman's, but he duly realized that the exact opposite qualities were the source of his growing attraction. As he rolled on the sock, he took in the sight of their lean musculature before him--slightly more prominent in Oswald's uninjured leg, and the dark hair that grew more sparse up the length of his thighs, made all the more tantalizing by the unspoken knowledge of what lied at their juncture, under just a thin layer of cotton.

 Oswald had stood on a pedestal in Ed's mind for so long that he nearly forgot that Oswald was carved not from cool unfeeling marble, but from trembling flesh like himself.

 Dutifully, he buckled the leather garter he had collected onto Oswald's calf, and clipped it to the sock in a swift motion. He paused before doing the same for his other foot, suddenly fascinated by the tight knot of scars at his ankle.

 Oswald flinched as Ed's fingers ghosted over it. He had been unconscious the last time Ed had touched his ankle like this.

 Unbidden, his mind conjures the memory of sitting on a pew, the pastor reciting the parable of Jesus washing his disciples' feet. But this was the other way around, wasn't it? Or was that ridiculous comparison to make? He had kneeled at the end of the service, despite his protests. His fingers steepled in prayer, even if he had defiantly told his parents he didn't believe in a word of it. He was kneeling again now. 

 "I know it's rather hideous, but I suppose you've probably seen much worse."

 When he looked up at Oswald, his eyes were closed tightly.

 "Oswald, there's not one thing that's hideous about you."

 Without thinking, he cradled Oswald's foot in his hands and pressed a kiss to the jagged lines there. He moved up, pressing another kiss to Oswald's bare knee, before laying his face against it, achingly desperate to be close to him. Above him, Oswald gasped.

 "You have no idea how painful it is...to be so close to you without touching you," Ed murmured against heated skin.

 "You think..." Oswald whispered incredulously, "you think  _I_  don't know what that feels like?"

 Ed was shocked to feel Oswald's hand tenderly cupping his cheek. He opened his eyes to look up at him, and saw that Oswald's face mirrored his own awed reverence.

 "Ed.... _I love you._ I had no idea that you..."

 Ed couldn't believe what he was hearing. As if in a dream, he leaned up on his knees to capture Oswald's mouth in a long overdue kiss.

 They seemed to stay like that forever, Ed in between Oswald's parted legs, with strong fingers curling over his shoulder. 

 "How long have you-" Oswald began to whisper against his cheek when they finally parted for breath.

 "Probably a long time...maybe since I first met you...but I didn't realize until now."

 Oswald looked him in the eyes. "Is that why you've been avoiding me?"

 "I couldn't imagine that you felt the same way," Ed answered truthfully.

 Oswald kissed him again, and Ed closed his eyes, letting it consume him. If Oswald had been the ocean he would have let it drag him under, to never return from it's murky depths.

 "I've never felt so strongly about someone in my entire life, Ed." Oswald replied, somehow instantly quelling all of Ed's anxieties. 

 Tugging at Ed's shirt collar, he mouthed a line down his neck, pressing sweet, open-mouthed kisses as far down as he could reach. Ed tightened his arms around him, gasping, as he carded his fingers through Oswald's hair, unbothered by the sticky remnants of last night's gel. He could feel a growing hardness where Oswald's boxers were pushed up against his lower stomach and was oddly reassured that Oswald was as sensitive as he was to their activities. 

 Noticing Ed could feel it, Oswald paused, "do you want to stop? I don't want to do anything more than what your comfortable with."

 "I'm hard too," Ed blurted out stupidly.

 Oswald swore under his breath.

 Ed kissed him hungrily. "Could we, uh, get on the bed?" His voice sounded painfully dry to his own ears.

 Without a word, Oswald pushed himself back onto the large bed, pulling Ed with him by his shirt front. Ed landed clumsily, with one of Oswald's legs in between his, and fumbled against him for a second until Oswald somehow leveraged his weight against him and flipped them so he was on top of Ed and---Oh. Ed liked that. He liked that a lot. Oswald's entire body bearing down on him, grinding their hips together as Oswald's tongue searched the seam of his lips and gaining easy entry. Ed wasn't sure how something could feel so new and exhilarating but at the same time as natural as breathing.

"Truth be told, Ed," Oswald murmured into his ear, "I haven't actually done this before..." He sounded more amused than nervous, as if the situation was some sort of pleasant yet unexpected surprise.

 "Really?" Ed managed to gasp. "I mean I've only...not with men--"

 "I figured."

 "This is-- _oh...oh, I'm really close."_

 Oswald managed to work a hand between them to unzip Ed's pants, and had barely palmed him through his briefs when Ed came a with violent, shuddering spasm and a deep groan that sounded suspiciously like Oswald's name. 

 He blinked up at Oswald above him, who looked stupefied.

 "That was a little embarrassing," Ed murmured self deprecatingly, as he tried to regain his breath.

 "No, that was...really hot."

 Ed grinned at him, warm laughter threatening to bubble up from his chest. He moved to touch Oswald through his strained boxer shorts. "Can I--"

 "Yes," Oswald cut him off.

 Oswald laid himself down on the bed, on his side so he was face to face with Ed. He pulled him in for another kiss as Ed pulled his waistband down past his hips.

 "Oh, wow."

 "What's that supposed to mean?" Oswald asked sharply, suddenly self-conscious.

 Ed took Oswald's length in his hand, and began working it in quick, tight strokes like he would his own, aided by the ample pre-cum that was beading at the tip. It felt abundantly thick and solid in his grip.

 "I just--I doubt anyone's had the chance to tell you you're particularly well-endowed."

 Oswald choked out a laugh, his thighs trembling from Ed's ministration. "No, you're the first to-- _uhn_ \--inform me--- _god, that's perfect, Ed, just like that..."_

 When Oswald finally came in his fist, Ed felt amazed that he was the one who made it happen. Oswald had him wipe his hand off on the now soiled boxer shorts, and dropped them to the floor below, shucking his undershirt with it. They laid with their bodies pressed together for a few long moments, Oswald nude while Ed was still mostly dressed, reveling in pleasurable haze of it all. 

 "You know, you just took my virginity," Oswald whispered coyly into his ear.

 "Virginity is actually a social construct..." Ed began sleepily.

 "I'm sure you're right, but still, I was raised very traditionally, you know." He lazily traced his thumb down Ed's cheek to the indent of his chin. "I think the least you could do is make me breakfast afterwards."

 "Oswald, it's probably noon already," Ed giggled. He kissed Oswald again, just because he could.

 After what felt like ages lying there together, he reluctantly decided to get up and indulge in Oswald's request. When he turned back towards the bed, the sight of Oswald languidly splayed out on the sheets, the expanses of his pale skin bathed in honey colored light, nearly took Ed's breath away. 

 He suddenly realized that Oswald was still wearing the sock and garter on just one leg.

 "All because of a garter..." Ed murmured under his breath.

 "What was that, Ed?" Oswald asked without opening his eyes.

 Ed smiled to himself. "I'll tell you when I come back with breakfast."


End file.
